Warrior's Redemption

Prologue

TOM GREEN COUNTY, TEXAS

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

FAIRIES ABSOLUTELY WERE real. Dani didn’t care what Aunt Jean claimed.

After Mrs. Palmer down at the new library had loaned her those wonderful books this past summer, she’d known it wasn’t just her imagination. Lots of people believed in them. She’d spent the entire vacation between fourth and fifth grades reading all about Faeries.

Dani? Aunt Jean’s voice carried all the way down to the chicken coops. Dani! You better hurry up with those eggs, little girl, if you expect to get breakfast in you before the school bus gets here.

Dani grabbed the one egg that had been laid already, dodging the grumpy old brown hen’s beak, and hurried back toward the farmhouse. She’d have to gather again when she got home from school, but at least Emma Hen had come through early, as usual.

A furtive glance toward the empty corner next to the steps as she approached the house warned her of what was to come.

Get your hands washed and sit yourself down.

Aunt Jean’s no-nonsense expression was firmly in place, and Dani quickly did as she was told, slipping into her spot at the old kitchen table as her aunt slid a warm plate in front of her.

What did I tell you about setting a saucer of milk out by the steps? Aunt Jean waited, arms folded in front of her.

Not to, Dani mumbled around her first bite of thick toast. Draws snakes.

So it’s not that you forgot. You’ve just decided you’re not going to mind me, is that it? You’re just trying to be bad?

No, ma’am, I’m not trying to be bad. I promise. The Faeries liked milk and bread. It encouraged them to stay. My book said—

Nuh-uh. Aunt Jean turned back to the stove, scrambling Dani’s egg, her gray curls swaying with the stubborn shaking of her head. I don’t want another word of that fairy nonsense, you hear me? There’s no such thing as a fairy, but rattlers are real enough. Those damn snakes will smell that milk a mile off and next thing you know, you or me will be getting ourselves snakebit. And then what?

The Faeries would keep us safe, if you’d let me feed them, Dani muttered, tearing a corner off her toast and dropping it into her lap. If her aunt would just believe, the Faeries would hear all their wishes and make them come true. I read that in one of my books.

Danielle Faye Dearmon! Aunt Jean turned around from the stove and leaned across the table. I’ve had just about enough of this nonsense from you. Not everything in books is true just because somebody wrote it down. I’m serious as a heart attack about this, little girl. I want your promise right now that you won’t put any more milk out by the steps for these damned imaginary fairies of yours or else I’m going to have to paddle your butt, you understand me? I want your promise on it, Dani. I want it now.

Yes, ma’am. Dani didn’t hesitate with her response. She had no choice. Her aunt was really serious this time. She almost never pulled out the paddle your butt threat. I promise.

She meant to keep the promise, too. No more milk by the porch steps. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t hunt down a new spot to feed the Faeries when she got home from school this afternoon. A better spot. One that Aunt Jean wouldn’t find.

Because no matter that Aunt Jean was the best substitute mama on the face of the planet, in this one thing, she was completely wrong.

Faeries were absolutely real, and Dani meant to make sure she stayed on their good side.

One

LAND OF THE FAERIE

1294 (AS CALCULATED BY MORTALS)

HOWLS ECHOED THROUGH the forest of Wyddecol, so protracted and pain-ridden they tortured Elesyria’s eardrums. Like those of some animal in its death throes, the screams pitched from fury to terror and back again.

She ran faster through the trees, seeking in vain to escape the torment of those sounds. Knowing she could never outrun that which came from her own throat.

It was her agony, her torment that tore the screams from her lungs as if the pain were a living creature eating at her innards.

Her daughter, her only child, her beautiful Isabella had disappeared from the World of Man.

On she ran, unseeing, dodging by instinct the low-hanging branches and fallen limbs. On, deeper into the forest, until at last she broke through into a clearing. Ahead lay the Temple of Danu, golden in its perpetual shaft of sunlight, encircled by its ring of massive stones.

Elesyria pushed herself harder, maintaining her pace up the long marble staircase. Not even at the doorway did she slow. No stopping to shed her sandals, no washing her feet, no bending low to show reverence at the doorway to the inner sanctum. Not this time. This time, for the first time ever, she simply didn’t care.

Her precious Isabella was gone from the World of Man.

Show yourself, I demand it! How could you allow this to happen? she accused, ignoring the hysterical echo of her own words in the cavernous, rounded room. You promised. She was to be cared for if I would but leave her with the Mortals and return to your service. You promised!

She screamed the final words, her voice cracking as she sank to her knees. The tears, until now strangely absent, at last found their release, rolling down her cheeks to splatter on the white stone floor at her knees. You promised, she accused one final time, her words no more than a whisper against the canvas of her grief.

You would demand my presence in your world, Daughter of Danu?

The words echoed off the arc of the room’s high ceiling, bouncing, tumbling in a harmonious melody of sound.

I would, Elesyria answered without hesitation. She had no care for the ancient protocols. No time to travel to the trance world. No desire to honor the bitch Goddess who had betrayed her.

In front of her a pale green mist coalesced, writhing and bubbling, shifting from one form to another until at last a tall, beautiful woman emerged. The Goddess, the Earth Mother, had arrived.

Then I can only assume these are the direst of times. What troubles you, my child?

"The loss of my child. Elesyria rose to her feet, well aware she breached all acceptable behavior in doing so. Eye contact with the Goddess was too painful, so she fixed her gaze on the other woman’s chin. Isabella is dead. You’ve broken your promise to me."

The Goddess lifted her hand as if to catch a handful of air in the room before rubbing her thumb against her fingers, much in the way a merchant might sample the feel of a fine silk.

Isabella lives.

Impossible! Elesyria had been to the curtain between the worlds that very morning. She’d stood there as so often she did, stretching out her magic to caress the essence of the daughter she’d left behind. Only this time, there had been nothing. She’s not in the World of Man. I felt for her myself. That which had been her is gone.

Nevertheless, Isabella’s soul has not returned to the Fountain. She lives.

How can that be? Elesyria’s legs buckled, too weak to hold her weight, and she dropped to her knees. The place where I felt for her is as empty as my heart.

The Goddess lifted both arms and the mist returned, swirling in a sphere between her hands. It moved as if alive, frantic with a billion life-forms, its color shifting from the palest green to a brilliant emerald and back again. Then the Goddess clapped her hands together and the mist disappeared as quickly as it had formed.

Not only does she live, she has joined with her SoulMate. Though, as you say, she is not in the time and place where you left her.

What does that mean?

The Goddess shrugged, palms held upward. I cannot yet say. I know only what I feel when I search the Myst.

Elesyria’s mind reeled in confusion. Isabella’s space on the Mortal Plain was empty. She’d felt that for herself. And yet, the Goddess claimed her daughter lived. Lived and had found the one happiness every Fae sought: her own SoulMate!

I need answers, she whispered, as much to herself as to the Goddess standing nearby.

Indeed you do. Go with my blessings.

Her blessings? Not enough. Not by half.

Elesyria raised her head, coming as close to meeting the Earth Mother’s eyes as she dared. After all the years I’ve dedicated to your service, Goddess, I want more than your blessings. I want to travel through the curtain with the power to punish any who harmed my child.

Crossing over with your Magic intact is forbidden by your High Council.

If the Goddess thought to dissuade her with something so trivial, she was seriously mistaken.

I’ve no more care for the politics of Fae than I have for those of Man. I care only for the child grown to woman whom I left behind when I returned to my service in your temple. I must know the truth of her fate. I want to travel through the curtain. With my Magic.

And if you find your daughter has not been harmed? If you find it is as I have indicated?

If, pray the Goddess, Isabella lived happily joined to her SoulMate, as the Goddess insisted? Then I want the power to reward those who aided her.

The visage in front of her shimmered from green to gold and back again.

In offering reward as freely as you threaten punishment, Elesyria, you demonstrate your wisdom. So be it. You may retain your powers to use for this purpose and this purpose only. Your years of faithful service watching over my followers have earned at least this much from me. As you go forth, I will set in motion what I can to assist. Travel to the place where your daughter should be. Seek out the Tinklers when you arrive. They are my eyes and ears in the World of Man. If any can guide you to the truth, surely it will be they.

Thank you, Earth Mother.

Elesyria bowed her head, honoring the Goddess before her. When she lifted her eyes once again, she was alone.

Rising to her feet, she squared her shoulders and hurried from the chamber, already seeing the spot where she would cross over in her mind’s eye.

She would find the Tinklers the Goddess had spoken of and she would know the truth. She prayed the result would require her to use her Magic for the benefit of one who had helped her daughter, but if not?

Woe be unto any who had lifted a hand to bring harm down upon Isabella. They would feel her wrath even if it should shake the very foundations of the Mortals’ world.

Two

CASTLE MACGAHAN, SCOTLAND

1294

HAD IT BEEN only this morning he’d dared to complain aloud that his life couldn’t possibly get any more complicated?

Malcolm MacDowylt, beleaguered laird of the MacGahan clan, pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose and wished to the gods he’d never stepped foot out of his bedchamber this day. The bird that had flown into his open window at sunrise should have been warning enough of the gods’ intent at mischief. Foolishly, he’d ignored the sign and carried on.

Walk softly and have a care for your tongue, lad, lest you stir the anger of the old gods.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind, naught but a memory now.

Aye, the old gods were busy this day. Neither his heavy burden of guilt nor the cursed drought that had plagued the land for months, threatening a winter of starvation for his people, had satisfied the denizens of Asgard. Not even his younger brother’s arrival this very morning with the distressing news of his father’s passing and his sister’s resulting peril had satisfied their perverse pastime of plaguing him.

No, their judgment of his failures made clear their anger was in full bloom. Now, as if to drive home the spear of their discontent, they’d sent this woman to torment him.

Am I to be kept waiting in attendance upon your daydreaming for the entire night, or will you send a servant to prepare my chamber?

Of all the penance he might have expected the old gods to demand of him, he’d never imagined they would send Isabella’s mother to torment him.

So much for his ability to imagine the worst. The truth of the matter stood before him in all her arrogant glory. Elesyria Al´ Byrn clearly expected his meek compliance with her demands.

What choice had been left him? None. At least none that was honorable, and he would consider no others.

As those who brought you here have seemingly left without you—if they’d ever been there to begin with!—I can hardly turn you out into the mercy of the night, now can I?

Tinklers, she murmured with smile and a sigh, her hand fluttering through the air like a midsummer butterfly. Everyone knows how unreliable they are.

Tinklers unreliable? Not in his experience. They were, however, rumored to be agents of the Fae. Just as Isabella was rumored to have been born of a Fae mother. The very woman, it would appear, now standing in front of him, her foot tapping impatiently on the stone floor.

Well? It’s hardly proper to keep your own dear mother-in-law standing about on these old legs. The woman lifted a hand to her back and stretched as if she’d reached the limits of her endurance.

His own dear mother-in-law, indeed.

More like his own personal bundle of guilt.

Janet! he called, startled to find the old maid already at his side, her disapproving glare fastened on him. Please show my—show Isabella’s mother to a guest chamber and see that she’s made comfortable.

And high time it is, too, Janet muttered, a disapproving glare cast his direction. It’s more respect for yer elders you should be showing, if you dinna mind my saying so.

Not that it ever mattered what he minded when it came to the chief maid in his castle. Janet always freely spoke her mind. He had, after all, encouraged her to do so.

The women turned to leave the solar but his guest stopped, sending a warning smile in his direction. I’ll be about settling my things in my chamber for now, but come first light, I’ll be back down. I’m wanting a chat with you, my son. There’s much I’ll be wanting to hear from your own lips. Much I have need to hear about what’s happened to my Isabella.

Malcolm dipped his head in a respectful nod and, after the women departed, once again pinched the spot between his eyes as if by pressure alone he could force the worry from his brow.

There was one discussion he’d no desire to hurry into.

His marriage to Isabella had been nothing more than a means to an end. He’d barely known the woman, but the act had allowed him to become the MacGahan laird without a battle, without any loss of life. He’d even done everything in his power to see Isabella off on the road to her own happiness, but as it turned out, that wasn’t meant to be. The guilt over her death had hung heavily on his shoulders since the moment his riders had returned with the fateful news.

She has the look of her daughter about her, does she no? Patrick, his brother and trusted second-in-command, approached from the corner of the room. Though there’s something about that woman . . .

Patrick’s words hung in the air between them, sending a prickle of discomfort down Malcolm’s spine.

Something? You think she lies about who she claims to be?

Patrick shook his head slowly back and forth, his gaze fixed on the doorway. No. I feel no sense of deceit about her. It’s more of a . . . His eyes tracked at last to meet Malcolm’s. I canna say what it is, Colm. Only that I’ve an unsettled feeling in her presence. She’s trouble, that one.

Silence filled the room, pressing against Malcolm’s eardrums as he considered the possibilities.

Could there be any truth in the old stories, do you think?

They’d both heard the rumors before they’d come here last year to claim what was owed them by the old laird of the MacGahan. Rumors of the old laird’s granddaughter, Isabella, having been born of a Faerie mother who’d long since disappeared from this world.

In spite of those rumors, Malcolm had journeyed here to demand that which he was owed, the holdings of the MacGahan in payment for the laird’s debt to his own clan. After the old laird’s mysterious death, Malcolm had married Isabella to peacefully secure his place as the new laird. That the marriage to him had not been Isabella’s choice was only one complication.

Patrick shrugged and dropped into the nearest chair. There’s no one left from those days to speak on the truth of it, brother. And, whether or no, you’ve more pressing worries on this day than an aggrieved Elf in yer guest room.

Malcolm couldn’t agree more.

Have you decided what to do about Torquil’s demand?

Torquil.

Malcolm claimed the chair facing his brother, closing his eyes as he sat.

With their father’s death, their elder half brother had become the new laird of the MacDowylt. And with his new title, Torquil now demanded homage and fealty from Malcolm. No matter that their father had given to Malcolm for his own all that he was able to collect from the MacGahan. No matter that he’d become the MacGahan laird with his father’s blessing. As far as Torquil was concerned, all of it belonged to the MacDowylt clan and to him as the new MacDowylt laird. He saw Malcolm as little more than a caretaker and Castle MacGahan as nothing more than a source of silver for his coffers.

Castle MacGahan can ill afford to pay homage to Torquil. We’ll be lucky to feed our people through this winter as it is. And it should come as little surprise that I’ll no be pledging my loyalty or my men to our brother’s service.

His relationship with his elder brother had always been stormy. Unfortunately, it appeared his father’s death had done nothing to calm those waters.

And Christiana? Would you leave her fate to such as Torquil? Patrick spoke calmly, only his eyes betraying his emotion. He’s neither the patience nor the understanding she requires. Her gifts confound him, and we both ken that forcing her into a marriage or sending her off to a convent will be naught but a disaster for all.

His younger sister’s abilities to read the runes didn’t confound Torquil. They made him drool with envy. Patrick knew that as well as he did. As well as they both understood what might happen if Torquil couldn’t force Christiana to use her gifts for his benefit.

We’ll bring her here, where we can protect her.

Across from him, Patrick snorted his disbelief.

Have you gone daft? You ken as well as I do he’ll no let her come to us. No willingly. No here, where she might decide to use her gift for your benefit. She’d no be under his control and he’ll be having none of that. I can scarce believe he allowed Dermid to journey here.

Their youngest brother’s arrival had surprised Malcolm as well. Granted, someone had to deliver news of their father’s demise and present Torquil’s demands. But it seemed entirely out of character for Torquil to have sent Dermid.

Aye, Malcolm agreed, frustrated at his own inability to interpret his elder brother’s intent. It’s no like him to give up any pieces on his chessboard.

Whatever the new laird of the MacDowylt schemed, it made little difference. Malcolm’s course was all too clear. He could no more leave his sister in Torquil’s clutches than he could have turned Elesyria out into the cold this night.

No matter the cost. We bring Christiana here.

Patrick nodded, rising slowly to his feet. In that case, it’s best I pay a visit to the MacKilyn. We’ve no enough men on our own to confront Tordenet Castle.

Wait.

They would need help, no doubt. And Patrick was correct in wanting to ensure that the only remaining ally to Clan MacGahan supported them still. As much as it galled Malcolm, there was no option but to court the favor of Angus MacKilyn, as fickle an old man as ever walked the land.

But not by sending Patrick. He needed his brother here to keep watch over Elesyria until they could determine why she had come and what she wanted.

Send Eric with a small party of men. I prefer your attention directed toward our houseguest, at least for the time being.

Just in case.

Again Patrick nodded, a small quirk of his eyebrow the closest he came to questioning Malcolm’s decision. As you wish, my laird. ’Tis a task well within the abilities of the captain of yer guard. I will see it done.

Malcolm leaned back in his chair, the sound of Patrick’s retreating steps in his ears. Lifting a hand to his face, he massaged one finger across the bridge of his nose, giving thanks for his brother. If only everything else in his life could be as predictable and steady as Patrick.

Immediately, he sat forward, his eyes opened wide.

I dinna mean it! he offered to the empty room.

Best not give the old gods of Asgard any more targets this day.

Three

COMFORT, WYOMING

PRESENT DAY

WHERE THE HELL is she anyway? Hiding? She knows damn well I meant pumpkin, not pecan!"

Now, Charlie, think of your blood pressure, darlin’. She’ll be right back.

Dani Dearmon pulled the collar of her old sweater up against the wind and made her way through the early shower of snow crystals out to the ancient cottonwood tree, ignoring the upraised voices coming through the back door of the truck stop where she worked. She squinted against the biting sting of ice hitting her face and poured a capful of milk into the little bowl she’d fitted into the crook of the lowest branch.

I certainly hope you appreciate this, Faeries, she muttered, turning from the tree and making her way back toward the sprawling building and the argument she knew awaited her.

Not an argument, really, she corrected herself. More of a mini confrontation. But she was used to those now. Though they were old Charlie’s stock and trade, she’d learned long ago that he must have been the original inspiration for the saying about someone’s bark being worse than his bite.

What’s this I hear ’bout you having an oven full of pecan pies? The old man stood in the center of her kitchen, his short stature and scraggly beard making him appear more like an out-of-place gnome than the owner of the biggest truck stop on this side of the state. You lost what little sense you had? Halloween means pumpkin! Pumpkin is what you have for holidays, gal.

Dani turned from hanging her sweater on a peg by the door and smiled at the old man, taking time to pat his shoulder as she passed by him on her way to wash her hands.

Not holidays at my house.

He’s talkin’ regular Christian holidays. The ones decent folks celebrate, Verna, the oldest of the morning shift waitresses, added with a huff, her graying topknot shivering like a bowl of Jell-O as she spoke. Not them evil Pagan things of yours. Don’t think we don’t see you sticking food out in that tree for your false gods.

Dani breathed in the calming smells of her kitchen and smiled, doing her best to ignore her fellow worker. My Aunt Jean made pecan pies for every holiday. And you know for yourself, Charlie, my pecan pies will draw in every cowboy and trucker for a hundred miles.

As for Verna’s comment, she planned to ignore the woman. No point in arguing with her. How could she expect her coworker to understand something her own family never had? She knew from experience that she should just let it go. Still, she couldn’t stop herself. And they’re not gods of any sort. They’re Faeries. Big difference.

Get yourself back out front to your customers, Verna, and leave Dani be. She can believe in whatever she wants to. Charlie turned his scowl from one to the other of them. No matter how crazy it is.

The woman pursed her lips in irritation and snatched up one of the fresh pans of cinnamon rolls Dani had finished icing before she’d gone outside. With a harrumph obviously meant to include everyone, Verna disappeared through the swinging door into the front of the diner.

Guess we don’t have any choice but to make do with what you got baking since you already did it, Charlie grumbled, scrunching his face into a scowl. Don’t know why I put up with your sass lip.

Because she’s the best baker in three counties and for some reason she likes us enough to stay on here and put up with you, Charlie’s daughter answered. Evelyn, past fifty herself, grinned at Dani as she prodded her father’s back, urging him forward. Come on, Daddy. Get out of Dani’s kitchen and let her do her thing.

I’ll do pumpkin next batch, Dani offered as a consolation to the old man’s retreating back. I promise.

Damn straight you will, he asserted, snagging one of the fresh cinnamon rolls as he passed and stuffing it in his mouth. Dani shook her head, measuring out the ingredients for another batch of rolls, determined not to let any of this ruin her mood. This was the part of her day she liked best, early in the morning, when the kitchen was mostly all hers. Surrounded by the aroma of those things she’d made with her own two hands, she felt the closest she ever had to being where she belonged.

For a time she’d dreamed of going off to some fancy cooking school to become a real chef, but Aunt Jean’s